While the others were going out into the garden for coffee, Laura seized the opportunity and gave Herman a kiss behind a door—a swift, fugitive, little kiss on the cheek. But for Herman it was as if the doors of Paradise had been suddenly flung open. He sat there mute amidst the chatter and laughter, and revelled in the wonderful thought that the girl in the silk frock, the beautiful Laura, had kissed him.
And Laura also paused in drinking her coffee and munching her sweets and remembered how his cheek had burnt her lips. It really was rather pleasant to kiss. Neither did it cost anything—possibly just the contrary....
They carefully avoided speaking to each other and they could not for the world have looked each other in the eyes.
After this Stellan and Laura detached themselves more and more from their brothers and sisters and came more and more frequently to Herman’s house. They both felt that the sombre and shabby Selambshof was not their chosen field. No! Ekbacken was quite different—here you escaped the sight of your father sitting about in his dull fashion. From here intercourse with Stonehill and Kolsnäs was easiest. Here, with their guardian, they had the exciting and pleasurable feeling of being at the heart of things. They felt already, those two fair heads, that it was Ekbacken that was to be their stepping stone to success in the world.
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It had been a long autumn. With grey creeping mists and ankle-deep slush, November had drawn a close ring round Selambshof.
Peter was alone in the day time. As he had failed again in his examination, he had had to leave school and it was not yet decided what he was going to do. But time passed quickly all the same, for recently he had lots of things to attend to.
For example, the great pig-slaughter. Since six o’clock this morning he had been strolling about in the dark yard and as soon as dawn came he was down by the pig-sty behind the cowshed.
The cowherd came trailing one poor pig after another. Then they were raised on to the slaughter block and instantly Anders, the stable man, stuck them in the neck so that the blood spurted out. The bailiff was there himself, and scratched the pigs’ backs with his stick and chatted in friendly tones to them before execution. But old Kristin was no longer there with the pail to collect the blood. As long as she kept going, she had taken part in the slaughter of the pigs. Silent and solemn she used to stand there bent over her pail, stirring the blood as did the rest of the tribe in days of old at the great winter sacrifice. There was a strange emptiness after her. But the crows were still here. Flocks of them settled in the high bare lime tree and their croaking seemed like the voice of the grey November day. Now and then they flew for a moment down towards the steaming hot tripe as if to give a reminder of their ancient rights.